


Ghosts and Reflections

by kally77



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different season 5, a different way to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Connor

Connor can’t help himself. He keeps looking for the ghost – although Fred did say Spike is not technically a ghost. He never knew what ghosts were until he escaped Quor’toth. There were plenty of things he never knew until then. Things like, vampires can love. They can be good. They can do really stupid things for the ones they love.

At the very back of Connor’s mind, images and feeling lay dormant, almost translucent, like Spike sometimes is. There’s a boat, there, tiny on a too deep, too dark ocean. There’s fire raining from the heavens, and a big void in Connor’s chest. There are two women, both now dead, and Connor can almost – just almost – remember the gentleness of their fingers against his cheek.

 _Don’t try to remember_ , Angel warned him. _You wouldn’t like any of it._

And Connor remembers just enough to know he doesn’t need to remember more.

 _Stay away from Spike_ , his father also said. _He’s bad news._

But that warning is more difficult to heed, and Connor finds himself looking for that big coat and unnatural hair. He wonders if Spike feels the same way he does with parts of himself lost in the ether.

*

Angel wants to be alone. He won’t say as much – he’s never told Connor to leave – but it’s all too clear. His ego is as bruised as his body; his soul, too, maybe.

“I believe in you,” Connor offers in a quiet voice. He closes the door without getting so much as a smile.

It doesn’t take Connor very long to find Spike. Apparently, he’s trying to wash away the taste of Mountain Dew with something a lot stronger.

Ignoring the frown of the bartender – no, Connor isn’t old enough to be in a bar; so what? – he sits on the stool next to Spike, his body angled toward him, observing him in silence until Spike grows weary and sighs.

“Came to avenge your Da?” he asks with an eye roll. “He sends his little boy to fight his battles, now?”

The attempt to rile up Connor is obvious; Connor ignores it and asks instead, “What does it feel like to be yourself again?”

Surprise stills Spike’s hand with the shot glass still an inch from his lips. He lowers it again and turns a half smile toward Connor. 

“Want a drink?”

He never answers Connor’s question, but that’s okay.

*

Watching Spike sleep on that hospital bed, pale skin somehow paler against the sheets except for those two long lines around his arms, Connor thinks of magic. Silent as only a hunter can be, he approaches the bed. With a quick look, he assures himself that Spike is still asleep, then he touches that long red line with the lightest of fingers. Magic did this; the best magic Wolfram & Hart can offer, and still there are scars on Spike’s skin.

There isn’t a single scar on Connor’s body. Sometimes, he feels like there should be.

He knows he wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for magic – he feels it in his bones, in his soul. He doesn’t _really_ know why he needed to be fixed, why magic was the only way. The whole point is for him not to know after all.

But regardless of how much it helped him, he still doesn’t like magic.

“Connor?”

He looks up to find Spike’s eyelids battling sleep and gravity.

“Hey. You should rest. I was just leaving.”

Spike blinks twice more before he finally manages to hold Connor’s gaze.

“Don’t have to,” Spike mumbles.

It sounds like ‘Stay.’ So Connor does.

*

Long after she’s gone, Cordelia’s first words when she saw him still echo through Connor’s mind.

_I am so, so sorry, Connor._

He turns in his bed, punches the pillow into shape, but still can’t find sleep.

What was she sorry about? Why did seeing her hurt so much? He barely remembers her from before. She’s part of those frosted figures that lurk in the ice at the back of his mind.

The ice melted a bit, when he saw her, when she said those words, and he found tears rolling down his cheeks for no reason.

When he comes down the next day, Angel looks at him with something that resembles fear. Not fear of Connor; fear for him. Connor walks away before Angel can say something stupid, like suggesting that Connor go somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

He runs into Spike in the lobby, and his tiredness and confusion coalesce into anger.

“Why are you still there?” he practically growls. “You could get away from this place. Have a real life.”

Spike frowns at him before drawling, “So could you.”

Connor doesn’t know which of them strikes first.

He doesn’t know either which of them kisses the other first.

*

It’s been hours since Connor killed Sahjan – since the spell broke – but the memories still swirl in his head, sharp like diamonds now that the mist that cloaked them dissipated. 

His body is wired up, ready for battle, for anything, but his mind is exhausted after running through a full array of emotions. He was angry at Angel at some point; his father ought to have killed him. He was mad at himself; how could he ever hurt the ones he loves so, so much? He felt sorry for himself. Grateful for those few months of calm. Terrified of what might come now. Glad, too, that he was himself, truly himself again.

“You think too much,” Spike mutters, and his arm tightens over Connor’s waist, draws him a little closer, until Connor can’t tell anymore where his body ends and where Spike’s starts. “Stop it, boy.”

“Can’t stop,” Connor breathes against Spike’s neck. “Make me?”

And Spike does, with his hands on Connor’s body, his lips on Connor’s skin, his words in Connor’s ear like the gentlest of lullabies, calling him back from the darkness.

When he finally falls asleep, Connor’s mind is calm again. Spike still holds him tight.


	2. Spike

It takes Spike some time to understand who the kid is. Angel is still annoyed Spike popped out of that amulet and snaps it’s none of his business. The others say he’s Angel’s son, and Spike rolls his eyes and tries to get them to tell the truth, without much luck.

He finally finds his epiphany – of all places – in a bathroom. He stands there, watches the kid watch himself in the mirror, watches him put on a mask, layer by layer, until he looks like a normal boy.

Unseen and unheard, Spike has watched Angel do the same in his penthouse, hiding guilt and tiredness and fear until he looks like a CEO - although without the help of a mirror.

That’s when it finally dawns on him that Connor really is Angel’s son. He prods a little more – Fred has a soft spot for ghosts, apparently – and eventually gets the full story.

So, Darla got un-dusted. And vamped again. And pregnant.

And Spike thought _he_ had an interesting life…

He keeps watching the kid. The kid watches him in return, but always through that mask he wears like a second skin. Spike never wonders why he needs it.

*

When Spike raises his drink to toast Connor, the boy’s image is distorted through the glass, like a funny-house mirror. It’s no less true than the image he presents to the world – to his father. Angel doesn’t know; or maybe he’s afraid to know. Angelus afraid of a boy, how strange.

“You did not,” Connor says, nonplussed.

“Did too!” Spike protests, a little too loudly. “Cave in Africa. Trials and stuff. Won it fair and square.”

Spike doesn’t usually spill his secrets so easily, but the words tumble out before he can stop them. He had a few drinks in him already when the kid arrived, and Connor looks like he could drink anyone under the table, his father included. 

“Cool,” Connor says simply. It sounds like high praise.

He finally clinks his glass against Spike’s and drinks deep. His mouth twists a little at the taste. It’s almost adorable.

“So, are you going to leave, now?”

Spike shrugs. “Maybe. Not sure where I’d go.”

Connor gives him a look that says loudly without a single word that he heard about Italy, and about what – who – is there. He doesn’t ask. Good; Spike has no answer. Just plenty of questions.

*

When Spike wakes up again, his mind is a little fuzzy, but not enough for him to expect to find anyone at his bedside. He’s still not sure he didn’t dream Connor’s visit earlier. The boy didn’t say a word, just sat in a chair, not even really looking at Spike; just _there_.

He opens his eyes, and as he struggles to focus his vision through the haze of painkillers, he sees a shape standing there and starts to smile. But that body is too big, too still, too silent. Spike meets Angel’s eyes, then drops his gaze.

“He came to see you,” Angel says.

His voice has no inflexion. It’s neither cold with annoyance nor hot with anger; it just states a fact. Spike doesn’t reply.

“Does he… does he talk to you?”

That small hesitation draws Spike’s eyes up. Angel has rarely looked so vulnerable. Even in front of that silly cup, his heart wasn’t so raw, bleeding through every word.

“Suppose he does,” Spike says slowly. “You don’t expect me to betray his trust and tell you about it, do you?”

The tiniest of smiles brushes against Angel’s mouth. Spike blinks and it disappears. So does Angel.

*

Fighting with Connor in the middle of the lobby – just yards away from Angel’s office – isn’t exactly the smartest thing Spike has ever done. What’s worse, he’s not even sure why they’re fighting. 

He likes the boy. He’s got no reason to be mad at him. If anything he feels a bit sorry for him, for being tethered to his father, his mind still messed up in ways Connor doesn’t quite comprehend himself.

Spike isn’t so blind that he doesn’t recognize patterns and echoes, even when he tries so hard to ignore them.

Kissing Connor while still in the middle of the lobby, now with customers, lawyers, a few random demons and _Angel_ watching them isn’t the smartest thing Spike has ever done either, but he’s never claimed to be smart, and he’ll be damned before he regrets this. Especially when Connor pulls away, his hands still clenched on Spike’s forearms, and looks at him with eyes as wide, as deep as the ocean, his mouth pink like a heart.

“What… what was that?” he breathes.

“Not sure.” Spike can’t stop himself and touches that trembling mouth with his thumb. “Wanna try again?”

When they do, it’s without an audience.

*

Spike has been pacing in front of the elevator for a good hour and half. He should have gone with them. He should have put his fist in Angel’s face. He should have done something, damn it. Something more than watch them go.

When the doors finally open, he freezes, a curse stuck in his throat. They stand there, side by side, half a foot between them; if they were half a world apart, it would make little difference. There are faint bruises on Connor’s face. They’ll be gone by morning. His eyes, though… And Angel’s…

“What happened?” Spike blurts out.

Connor looks at him like he’s never laid eyes on Spike before. And maybe he hasn’t, not this Connor, because Angel murmurs, “The spell broke.”

Before Spike can ask a useless question, Connor spells it all out. “I remember. I remember everything.”

Spike sucks in a breath. He doesn’t know what memories Angel took from Connor. He doesn’t need to know. They hurt his boy; he’d have taken them away too.

Stepping closer, he wraps his arms around Connor. Murmurs, “You’re still you.” 

Connor clings back to him, tightly enough to hurt, but it’s Angel who mouths, “Thank you.”


	3. Angel

Angel doesn’t like people asking questions about Connor. He likes it even less when it’s Spike who asks. 

The problem is, he can’t threaten Spike with bodily harm if he doesn’t keep his nose out of other people’s business, so when Angel refuses to answer, Spike just asks someone else. Angel isn’t sure who finally yields, but he knows someone must have told him what they knew because he stops asking questions and starts to give Connor thoughtful looks.

Angel grits his teeth and considers himself happy that no one knows all of the details except for him. No one else remembers everything. No one needed to.

They offered to erase more than what he finally agreed to – erase Connor’s life from all of their minds. It’d be easier to give him a brand new existence, they said. Connor would be happier, too.

Angel thought about it, but in the end he said no. He might be a selfish son of a bitch – no, there’s no ‘might’ about it – but he’ll do everything he can to keep his son with him.

Keep him safe.

And if that means snuffing out ghosts when they get too curious… he’ll find a way.

*

Angel’s body is healed, but his mind is still in shambles when he enters his office. He’d never lost to Spike before. That he lost _now_ , after all he’s done to protect those he loves, after Spike got himself a soul somewhere… He can’t help but see grim omens in that defeat.

The usual folder is on his desk, waiting. Connor spends a lot of time at Wolfram & Hart, but he does go out; school, clubs, random patrols Angel isn’t supposed to know about. But Angel knows. On the series of surveillance pictures in the folder, he watches Connor enter a bar a few blocks away. Watches him sit next to Spike. Watches them drink, and smile, and laugh.

It’s been so long since he heard Connor’s laugh that he doesn’t even remember the sound of it.

He touches Connor’s smile on the picture, and considers telling Spike to stay the hell away from his son.

In the end, he closes the folder, pushes it to the bottom of a drawer, and gets to work. When Connor comes to see him, Angel asks about his evening as casually as he can manage. Connor doesn’t mention Spike. Neither does Angel.

*

Angel isn’t sure he could explain why he goes to the hospital wing. He just does, and that’s all there is to it.

Or at least, that’s all until he enters Spike’s room and sees Connor there, sitting in a chair. He stands when he sees Angel, and his expression, for some unfathomable reason, takes an embarrassed edge.

“He’s asleep,” he murmurs, glancing at the bed.

Spike’s face is paler than ever; his eyes remain closed.

Without looking at Angel, Connor starts for the door. As he passes by him, Angel rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Connor? Are you…”

Connor looks up at him. His eyes are more gray than blue.

“Are you okay?” Angel whispers.

If Connor’s lips twitch, it’s not on a smile. “I’m not the one who just had my hands cut off,” he says.

Angel’s gaze drops to Connor’s throat. He could swear he can see a scar on smooth, perfect skin.

“Son…”

Angel chokes on the word a little. There’s so much he wants to say, but since the spell, he can’t seem to find the right words.

“I’m okay,” Connor says before leaving, but Angel isn’t sure he believes him.

*

From the moment Cordelia talks to Connor, Angel starts to prepare for the explosion he can see rising in his son. The signs are all too familiar, especially in hindsight. Something in Connor is ready to shatter, and Angel is terrified that, this time, he won’t be able to fix it.

They warned him: if Connor breaks through the block, if he regains his memories, there’s nothing they’ll be able to do about it.

What’s worse is, this isn’t the only explosion slowly preparing. Cordelia showed him more than he’s comfortable knowing. More than he’s comfortable letting happen when Connor is already so fragile. He should send him away, but where? With whom?

One option is right under his nose, but Angel does his very best not to see it.

Until, that is, he can do nothing _but_ see it, along with half the employees on this floor. Connor and Spike fighting isn’t all that surprising, seeing how volatile they both can be.

The kiss that follows, on the other hand…

When they leave, Angel picks up his phone and calls his surveillance team. He gives them the night off. He really doesn’t want pictures of what will happen next.

*

The spell breaks. Sahjan dies. And when Connor turns back to him with eyes of steel and blood at the corner of his mouth, Angel is afraid. Not for himself, never for himself anymore, always for Connor.

On the way back, Angel doesn’t dare say a word, scared that if he even looks at Connor too closely, Connor will lash out, with words or blows. Terrified that he’ll run away. Again. He’s done that too many times already.

At the back of his mind, he clings to a single, thin thread of hope. Weeks ago, he’d have been disgusted with himself for thinking Spike could help, but a lot has changed since then. Or has it? Spike was always good at taking care of the people Angel had a hand in breaking.

He proves it again when they get there, and, after as brief an explanation as possible, Spike wraps Connor’s in the tight hug Angel was too scared to offer. It hurts Angel not to be able to help his son, but at the same time he can’t help but be immensely grateful that someone can help, and does help.

No magic, this time. No spells. Nothing but love.


End file.
